


Pay it Forward (or back, depending on perspective)

by AceSpacePup



Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Other characters appear but I don't want to be too obvious, Timeline liberties, ambiguous pronoun usage, meg's stupid headcanons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-19
Updated: 2014-05-19
Packaged: 2018-01-25 18:31:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1658243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AceSpacePup/pseuds/AceSpacePup
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hungry and exhausted, Clint takes a high profile hit but meets someone in the middle of the job.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pay it Forward (or back, depending on perspective)

**Author's Note:**

> A fill for two requests on tumblr involving assassination. 
> 
> This is being posted in-beta'd from my phone, so please forgive weird formatting. I'll fix that as soon as I can.

He was still young, barely out of his teens, when he was approached by businessman with a contract for a hit. They met in a nondescript New York diner--one with no security cameras he noted--to discuss the terms of the arrangement, and more importantly, the target. It was by sheer force of will that he didn’t choke on his lukewarm coffee when the businessman slid over a photograph. He eyed the picture in front of him and then the man on the other side of the table. The businessman, whether sensing his hesitation or just wanting speed things along, then pulled out checkbook and scribbled on it before sliding it over as well. This time he did balk into his drink just a bit.

“The money in this account will only become available upon completion of the contract.”

He nodded his understanding, gave one last glance at the businessman and the photo before grabbing the check and walking as calmly as possible out of the diner.

He turned down the block and then into an alleyway where he pulled out the check. Two hundred thousand dollars? He had barely seen a couple hundred let alone hundreds of thousands. In another life he probably wouldn’t have taken the contract, but as it was, business was slow. The money made from previous jobs hadn’t lasted very long, and his body was beginning to show the outwards signs of hunger and exhaustion. He looked at the check again. In the bottom corner was a memo he hadn’t noticed previously.  
For Charity.

For one brief instance he wanted nothing more than to crumple the damn thing up, tear it into pieces, throw the remains on the ground, and then spit on them. But, he supposed, the need for food, clothing, and shelter were more important that avenging the wound to his pride. He had physical wounds that needed tending, a bow that had seen considerably better days, and $200,000 would pretty much have him set. With that in mind he folded the check and stuffed it in the inner pocket of his thin jacket. Still fuming, he turned back out the alley onto the main sidewalk. He walked aimlessly for about a half hour until a string of muffled grunts and significantly louder swearing caught his attention.

Turning a corner he came across a fairly common sight: a mugging. Some nameless thug had one hand around the neck of some nameless mook, his other hand directing a knife under the poor man’s chin. Despite his choice of profession, he didn’t like seeing needless violence, and that’s exactly what this was. Without so much as a second thought to consequences and possible other lives, he rushed the thug, effectively taking him by surprise and tackling him into the ground. 

They traded punches for several seconds before the thug grabbed his knife from where it had landed in the initial attack. The blade swung up, tearing through the thin jacket, cotton t-shirt, and into the flesh below his rib cage. The pain, while nowhere nearly as bad as many of the other things he’d felt, spurred him to fight harder. His next punch landed squarely on the side of the thug’s head, sending him to the dirty ground in a boneless heap. 

He remained on his knees with a hand pressed to his side. His hand was slick with blood, but the wound was fairly shallow. After several more long seconds, he hazarded a glance towards the original victim who was in the process of dusting off his pinstripe suit pants as though he had merely tripped and not just been mugged at knifepoint. The man made his way slowly but efficiently towards him and extended a hand. The proffered assistance went unutilized however.

“Young man,” the suit said. “Not many would have done what you just did for me.”  
He didn’t respond and turned to hightail it out of there.

“Wait,” the man called without raising his voice but with no shortage of urgency. 

“You’re injured. Let me help.”

“I don’t need your charity,” he spit back.

“This isn’t charity, young man. This is a thank you.”

He startled slightly at the man’s earnest gratitude. Something about the mild, presumably English accent put him at ease in a way that he hadn’t felt in years, if ever, and he couldn’t help but follow when he beckoned him to follow. He trailed behind the man for about two blocks until they finally stopped in front of a pharmacy. The man told him to wait outside and walked into the store. At any point during the four minutes the man was inside he could have run and simply not accepted whatever thank you was coming. But he shoved his free hand into his pocket and waited, exuding more petulance than twenty-something year old should be capable of doing. He lifted his eyes as the man emerged through the door carrying a small paper bag.

“Come on, follow me,” the man called and once again led them forward. “If you could please sit down,” he said gesturing at a bench in the small, quiet park they’d come to. 

Sitting caused more discomfort than he’d like to admit, but he chalked that up to just how close the skin was to the bone. After all, the ribs were a sensitive area even in the healthiest of people. His attention was diverted from the pain in his side as the man reached into the bag and pulled out several cotton swabs and antiseptic ointment.

“You a doc or something?”

“No, but one tends to pick up a few things in the military. Certain skills are more easily applicable to civilian life, particularly when someone dear to you has an alarming propensity for injuring themselves.”

He hummed as though he understood and fought against his still intense instinct to bolt.

“You actually remind me very much of my young master,” the man said as he wiped off some of the tacky blood.

“Uh huh,” he mumbled flippantly but with no real heat.

“Well,” the man started, “you’re probably around the same age. You are a little impulsive and don’t seem to have much regard for your own safety.”

He stayed quiet.

“And…” the man trailed off.

“And?”

“And you both wear a very convincing mask devil-may-care attitude, even though your eyes belie your loneliness.”

“Oh yeah? Is that what you know, huh?”

“Not know, of course. We’ve only just met, and I’d hardly call this a proper meeting. Still, I’ve seen that look in the eyes of far too many men, and you and my master are too young to deserve such a severe countenance.”

He didn’t want to admit that what the man said was true, so when he felt the last of the medical tape secured firmly against his skin, he pulled his shirt and jacket back into place, mumbled a thanks, and ran just as he should have when he happened upon the mugging in the first place. He could have been imagining it, but he swore he heard the man say “you’re welcome” in an equally honest tone as the first “thank you” back in the alley.

Several days later he found himself perched upon the roof of a building across from the Met where the Third Annual Stark Foundation Charity Gala was to commence with a brief statement from the only surviving member of the group’s founding family. Anthony Edward Stark, orphan and sole-survivor of the Stark empire, was a notorious playboy, drunk, and rich, white asshole. None of those things really made him an ideal target, but the promise of a big payday was hard to turn down. Still, he didn’t want to emotionally scar the countless people who would no doubt be in attendance, so he decided to tail Stark from a distance and then take him out when he was good and drunk and well away from a large crowd.

From his rooftop he watched as the guests began to arrive in their limos and fancy cars. Almost an hour and a half later a cherry red Rolls Royce pulled into the museum driveway. Unsurprisingly, it was Stark himself who stepped out of the driver’s side. The man had a reputation for always driving himself. The passenger door opened a second later revealing a man in a crisp pinstripe suit. Not for the first time that week did he balk, and his hand immediately flew to the still healing wound on his side. Even from the distance, he could tell that the man in the suit was the same man who helped him after the fight.

This man was Edwin Jarvis, butler to the Stark family for years. His mind was immediately drawn back to mostly one-sided conversation they shared, and realized that he had been compared to Tony Stark. That was something he never thought he’d hear in his life. He remembered how fond the man sounded of his “young charge” and the pain in his voice when he spoke of the loneliness in his eyes. Again he was filled with the urge to crumple and rip up the check in his pocket, and this time he did.

He huffed as he took the nocked arrow from its rest and moved to stow his gear. If Jarvis could show him compassion, then surely the fondness he had for Stark was genuine. So, for the first time since he began carrying out hits, Clint stayed his hand in an attempt to repay Jarvis for the brief kindness he'd demonstrated just a few days ago.


End file.
